Saturday, August 01, 2015


“I may not here omit those two main plagues and common dotages of human kind, wine and women, which have infatuated and besotted myriads of people: they go commonly together.

Qui vino indulget, quemque alea decoquit, ille In Venerem putris. 1
[Who wastes his health with drink, his wealth with play, The same with womenfolk shall rot away.]

To whom is sorrow, saith Solomon (Prov. xxiii, 29), to whom is woe, but to such a one as loves drink? it causeth torture (vino tortus et ira [tortured with drunken rage]) and bitterness of mind (Sirac. xxxiv, 29). Vinumfuroris, Jeremy calls it (xxv, 15), wine of madness, as well he may, for insanire facit sanos, it makes sound men sick and sad, and wise men mad,2 to say and do they know not what. Accidit hodie terribilis casus (saith St. Austin8), hear a miserable accident; Cyrillus' son this day in his drink matrem prcegnantem nequiter oppressit, sororem violare voluit, patrem occiditfere, et duas alias sorores ad mortem vulneravit, would have violated his sister, killed his father, etc. A true saying it was of him, vino dari leetitiam et dolorem, drink causeth mirth, and drink causeth sorrow, drink causeth "poverty and want" (Prov. xxi), shame and disgrace. Multi ignobiles evasere ob vini potum, et (Austin) amissis honoribus profugi aberrarunt: many men have made shipwreck of their fortunes, and go like rogues and beggars, having turned all their substance into aurum potabile [potable gold], that otherwise might have lived in good worship and happy estate, and for a few hours' pleasure (for their Hilary term 's but short4), or free madness, as Seneca calls it, purchase unto themselves eternal tediousness and trouble.5
That other madness is on women. Apostatare facit cor [it maketh the heart go astray] saith the wise man, atque homini cerebrum minuit6 [and minishes the mind of man]. Pleasant at first she is, like Dioscorides' rhododaphne, that fair plant to the eye, but poison to the taste, the rest as bitter as wormwood in the end (Prov. v, 4), and sharp as a two-edged sword. "Her house is the way to hell, and goes down to the chambers of death" (Prov. vii, 27). What more sorrowful can be said? they are miserable in this life, mad, beasts, led like "oxen to the slaughter":7 and that which is worse, whoremasters and drunkards shall be judged; Amittunt gratiam, saith Austin, per-dunt gloriam, incurrunt damnationem ceternam: they lose grace and glory:

Brevis ilia voluptas Abrogat cetemum cash decus; x

[That pleasure of a moment Deprives him of eternal bliss above;]
they gain hell and eternal damnation.”

Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

A double bind episode

Double bind : “a psychological predicament in which a person receives from a single source conflicting messages that allow no appropriate response to be made”.
Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Because she hates the Internet and she avoids writing and receiving emails, she will never know what I have to say about our failed friendship. I could write her a letter but, unfortunately, I do not even know where she lives. If I could talk to her before she leaves to Australia next week I would try to explain the unconfortable situation she has put me in. Maybe she would be able to laugh of herself and of me in the end. I have no illusions however about finding a solution for a situation that seems, thanks to her, without remedy. Here is what happened. I do not like long narratives, so I will make it short. 

We first met at a concert. A renowned pianist came to play at our city (the 32nd Beethoven sonata in C minor Op. 111, the 14th Schubert sonata in A minor, and two Nocturnes by Chopin) and her seat was next to mine. She told me her name: Anna. I told her mine: Joseph. We talked about music and literature before and after the concert and before we separated at the end of the concert she wrote her email address in my copy of the program. I have asked her if she wanted to see me again and she had very kindly said yes.  Her smile and her eyes seemed to confirm that she was sincere. And she were so sweet.

We met one week later at Starbucks downtown one afternoon and we walked to a restaurant nearby for a glass of wine. I was happy and considered myself very lucky to have made the acquaintance of such a wonderful woman. The more we talked the more my surprise kept growing. She was indeed a marvelous person and I could not dream of having met anyone better than her. She was intelligent, she was warm, and she paid a sincere, genuine attention to me. Sometimes she even seemed charmed by what I said. Her smile revealed a simple, natural joy. She had a pleasant sense of humor. She was beautiful and not arrogant. Her exceedingly sophisticated manners impressed me deeply. It was something that given the vulgarity and superficiality that is common in so many girls nowadays could not fail to touch me. When we finally departed – in this country you cannot expect having dinner with a woman before some weeks have passed after you met her - I was amazingly happy with the way things had worked out between us. When I got home I was still excited and surprised for having made her acquaintance and I immediately sent her a message to express my joy and my gratitude. I wrote:

Thank you for existing and for having accepted my invitation! You are such a wonderful woman! I like you very much. I would never imagine that I could meet someone like you in this boring place. You truly are a treasure. I will forever think of you when listening to the Beethoven sonata. 

Half an hour later, I received an astonishingly coarse message from her. She was upset and very mad at me and said that if I could write what I have written without knowing her and after I have spent only some hours talking to her she was very sorry but she could not trust me anymore. In other words: I was not reliable. In an almost rude manner she declared that she was unable to accept my affection and told me that if I were in need of a woman I would better go somewhere else search for her because she was not that woman. She also said that most probably I was just seeking for an opportunity to take advantage of her.

I had purchased Dostoevsky’s Notes of the Underground in a new translation before I went to meet her at Starbucks and when I offered her the book she seemed very happy that I had done so. Now however she was not so happy anymore and told me that if I expected to get something from her with my gifts  - and why would I give her anything except with the hope of getting something from her in return - I should know that I were totally mistaken.

I spent some days thinking about her, trying to understand what had happened.  I hesitated in feeling guilty however. With her surprisingly angry message and her bizarre accusations, she had put me in a very awkward situation. Was she aware of that? Maybe not. Her harsh reaction to my words and to my behavior had certainly more to do with some bad experience she might have gone through with other people than with me.

Now, despite what I just told you, it happened that after I received her so bizarre message I met her occasionally several times downtown and every time she had shown herself as polite, as friendly, as welcoming and seemingly happy to see me as before. I was afraid, when I first saw her after her burst of anger, that she would not talk to me or would keep showing some hostility. I was wrong. Nothing of that happened and she behaved nicely, as if her outburst of irritation had never occurred.

I have to confess that the fact that she did not put me completely aside and kept treating me as kindly as before left me confused. Clearly, the situation where she had put me needed some analysis and clarification. If she was expecting me to retrieve my peace of mind and to find my way out of all that fuss easily she was wrong. How would I make a synthesis of the two contradictory messages? What was I supposed to understand about her and about her feelings regarding a relationship that in fact never really became one? She had drowned what could have been a sincere and truthful friendship, born of intellectual complicity and common interests, in the ocean of common conventionality. I didn’t feel that I had much interest in wasting my time dwelling in trivialities. She was refusing to share with me the most truthful and interesting part of her personality and was treating me as if I were just some simpleminded inferior idiot. I didn’t want that at all.

I think I can understand her however. She is very young. She is learning how to deal with reality and with people. I am the old man in this story and I should know that not everybody has lived as long as I did and learned as much about the world and about the truth of life as I did. It takes time, you know. I should try to correct my error and be more careful and more tolerant when I deal with young people. Is it not true that she barely knew me? She was just protecting herself from being taken for what she is not. All the bad stories we read in the newspapers and hear about everyday in television surely force us all to be on guard.

Besides, I remember now, she also made me feel that more than anything else she feared being loved. She said that she is always concerned by the emotions she may provoke in others. And that she does not feel that she is strong enough at this point in her life to deal with complicated feelings or dramas. She wants to be left in peace. She wants to enjoy life and other people’s friendship and love without having to face all the inconveniences of a deep, intimate and always disturbing relationship. 
As long as I was unable to understand what I just mentioned, knowing that I was innocent of her accusations and suspicions did not help me much. In fact it did not help me at all. At her eyes I had suddenly become some sort of opportunist who enjoys exploiting women’s good faith in order to achieve his vicious instincts, his thirst for love or his wild lust. Whatever. Because of that, everything I could still do, or say, or write to her would inevitably end by being interpreted as a suspicious intent or trick from my side to take advantage of her. Take advantage of what exactly? She silenced me. 

If I cannot talk or write to someone who is accusing me of acting wrongly, I cannot defend myself. And all the sympathy that I may still feel for her has no chance of being uttered. My offended dignity and my inability to go beyond the barriers that her accusations placed between her and me keep me quiet. She deprived me of speech. In some way she castrated me. Not being allowed any action to correct what I consider a big and regrettable misunderstanding made me for a while very unhappy. Who does she think she is to think and say all the things she thought and said about me? The people we love and admire and who love us make life better and the world a better place for us. I really enjoyed her company. She made me feel good, intelligent and not ashamed of being myself for a brief moment. Then all that hope of a true affectionate relationship faded. I really and sincerely liked her, I swear to God, and I never intended to take advantage of anybody or of anything (her body was at that moment, as such, the less important part of my interest in her). I truly think, despite her harsh reaction to my kind words, that she is a lovely person, one of the most pure and interesting girls I ever had the chance of meeting in this stupid country. A great person, indeed. But in writing all these words I am afraid that I am putting an end myself to something that never existed except in my imagination. I will try to be more careful next time so I will not be disappointed. Just one question before I leave: is there any relationship which is not based on giving and receiving, is it possible for a relationship not to rely on good faith and acceptance? Take the risk and you will have time to see later what’s really going on.

J. E. Soice

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Not about love

W. - Stop talking about love. It’s boring. I don’t love you the way you want to be loved and never will.
M. - I know.
W. - Can’t you enjoy my friendship and be happy?
M. - I guess I can. Who said I don’t?
W.- But you always want more. You never get enough.
M. - True. But so am I. There is nothing I can do to change myself and become someone else.
W. - Bla bla ba. Do you know the difference between good and bad poetry? You sometimes write very good poems. When you avoid getting sentimental and indulge in cheap romanticism.
M. - Thank you. You are flattering me. Well, you are also saying that some of my poems are bad.
W. - I didn’t say that. What I mean is that you could in your relationship with me avoid those cheap expectations that do not fit a man as intelligent and lucid as yourself. Am I clear now?
M.- Sure. Everything you say is easy to understand. I do not complain.
W.- In fact, what could I give you that I am not giving you already?
M.- Indeed. You are so generous. What else could you give me, beyond your warm and always forgiving friendship.?
W.- You know that I cannot be only yours. You also know that in some deep sense - and not just in the language of cheap novels and bad poems - I love you.
M. - I know all that, yes. You declare it frequently enough. I do not complain.
W. - It’s not true. You are always complaining. You want more.
M. - Is it such a bad thing that we want more than what we got or already have? I don’t think so.
W.- Bla bla bla again. I know that you are good at manipulating language. Just do not abuse of your talent. You tend to digress.
M.- Will you sleep at my home tonight?
W.- I can’t. You know that.
M.- You can if you want. You just do not want to be with me tonight.
W. - How can you be so boring? I will stay with you tomorrow. Didn’t I already promised you that I will? Isn’t that good enough?
M.- You know that I am always deeply and sincerely grateful when you decide to give me something. I will wait for tomorrow.
W.- Are you trying to be ironic?
M.- No. You cannot give me everything. But neither does God give people everything they ask for and dream of.
W.- What an intelligent remark. I will not forget it.
M. - You are like a God in the end. And knowing it, you see, I accept everything you give me with an humble joy and pride. I may protest and ask for more, but isn’t it the logic of our relationship? If I didn’t ask for more you would feel depreciated.
W.-Oh, what a subtle statement about my divine power and about your humble human condition. Should I go now? Can I? You are not going to complain?
M.- I haven’t seen you for almost one week.
W. - Here we go again. You know how difficult it is for me sometimes to get away from my other life.
M.- Yes, I know. Nobody is as much aware of it as I do.
W.- If I loved you as you want me to love you, our relationship would not last long. Don’t you think? Try at least to understand why I prefer to keep you as a good friend first of all.
M. - Yes, I understand what you mean. You are saying that contrary to love, that does not last forever, friendship resists being worn out.
W.- You make me laugh. You are stubborn and unbearable, but there is always a way of getting along with you. You have a good nature. At least when you believe that you are in love. Can I go now?
M.- Is the simpleminded motherfucker waiting for you?
W.- I didn’t hear what you said. Bye. Give me a kiss. See you tomorrow. And don’t call me or send me messages to my phone, please. I hate it and will not answer. Don't make my life more difficult than it already is. Give me time, I need time, don't be impatient.

Erik Satie, Gnossienne nº 1, Reinbert de Leeuw

Friday, July 17, 2015


 A man may sing a song with expression and without expression. Then why not leave out the song - could you have the expression then?


L’amour ne commence d’une façon sérieuse que lorsque les motivations sexuelles s’effacent. Jusqu’à là il ne s’agit pas d’amour. On peut même dire que jusqu’à là tout se réduit à la fatalité - ou devrais-je dire malédiction? - biologique, à un commerce d’apparences, à un échange d’illusions et d’espoirs, d’enfantillages et de curiosités. C’est, au fond, un agréable et naïve carnage, tout au plus. Parfois plein de maladresses.

C’est ce que je pense parfois. Et puis je n’en suis pas si sûr, j’en doute. Mais je sais qu’aucun mot n’a jamais deux fois la même signification, moins encore la même importance, ça je le sais. Les sentiments ne se répètent pas. Jamais deux fois. Nous manquons de vocabulaire. Peut-être manquons-nous aussi de sentiments ou de sensibilité, notre capacité de sentir et de comprendre ne s'exerce qu'à l'intérieur de frontières trop restreintes. Peut-être, je ne sais pas vraiment.

Les mots sont des êtres malléables, cependant, aux contours fluides, imprécis. Élastiques, ils s’adaptent et se conforment aux sentiments et aux sensations. En apparence, au moins. D’ailleurs nous nous en servons des mots sans trop réfléchir, la plupart des fois, à l'ambiguïté de nos propos, au manque de rigueur de nos impressions e de nos jugements. Et la vie suit son cours comme si tout était à sa place, comme si nous étions sur la bonne voie, comme si en fait il n’y avait pas devant nous un problème à résoudre.

Il se peut que nous sachions que par rapport à l’expérience elle-même, par rapport à la réalité qu’ils sont censés vouloir nommer et rendre claire, les mots n’aient qu’une valeur secondaire. N'est-ce pas que souvent on dit une chose alors qu'en agissant on fait tout le contraire?

Je me disais cet après-midi que je ne me souviens pas d’avoir jamais aimé ni d’avoir jamais été aimé. Mais qu’entendais-je par amour lorsque cette idée est venue déranger ma tranquillité?

En fait je crois que j’ai aimé et que j’ai été aimé. Je m’en souviens parfois. Je peux douter, bien entendu : était-ce de l’amour, vraiment ? Mais je déteste les complications, j'ai horreur de gaspiller mon temps à philosopher. Bien sûr que j’ai aimé. Bien sûr que l’on m’a aimé.

C’est quoi l’amour, en tout cas ? Une forme d’attachement physique à une autre personne ?  Probablement. Certainement. Il est difficile d’imaginer que l’amour ne soit pas l’amour d’un corps. Mais le corps n’est que la forme matérielle de la personne, une preuve visible de son existence. Il faut donc croire que l’amour n’est pas seulement ou exactement l’amour d’un corps, l’attachement à un corps. Je le crois sincèrement. Ce que l’on aime dans le corps n’est que la personne invisible qui l’habite. C’est pour cette raison que l’amour peut subsister – et subsiste parfois, il le semble -  malgré le vieillissement du corps, malgré les changements intervenus dans la forme ou l’apparence du corps, malgré la disparition du corps.

Combien de fois n’ai-je pas senti l’amour naître en moi de l’admiration que je ressentais devant l’intelligence, la joie de vivre, la ténacité, d’autres qualités morales d’une personne ? Il n’est pas difficile de comprendre ce qui se passait : les yeux, la bouche, le visage, les mains, les jambes, le corps dans sa totalité n’étaient que la forme matérielle que prenait l’être par ailleurs invisible de la femme qui était assise en face de moi ou à mes côtés. L’esprit et le corps ne faisaient qu’un et dans le corps de la femme que je regardais et que je touchais j’aimais en fait sa personne.

Une question se pose maintenant, inévitable : si ma perception des qualités morales de la personne se modifie, est-ce que ma perception de son corps, ma relation avec son corps, subiront aussi un changement ? Je veux le croire. Je dois préciser, cependant, que ce n’est pas exactement parce que le corps - ses manières, sa façon de se comporter - aura en quelque sorte confirmé, matériellement, mon changement d’opinion sur les qualités morales de la personne que ma relation avec lui peut changer. Je suis convaincu, en effet, que le corps et les qualités morales de la personne sont des êtres indépendants qui, quoi qu’en disent les psychologues, entretiennent entre eux des relations difficiles à saisir. Si le rapport de cause à effet – à tout changement moral correspondrait un changement adéquat dans le comportement du corps - est impossible à détecter, alors je peux aimer le corps seul ou la personne seule sans établir des rapports de signification entre eux et entre mes deux façons de les aimer.

Et pourtant j’ai bien affirmé à un certain moment que la manifestation visible de la personne morale se faisait dans le corps. Je n’ai pas changé d’avis, mais je ne crois pas nécessaire de revenir sur ce sujet pour éliminer la contradiction (qui peut être réelle ou seulement apparente).

J. E. Soice

Wednesday, July 01, 2015

SERGE REGGIANI- Mon petit garcon

Olhamos à volta

Elas falam, as jovens raparigas, e eu
não sei já que dizer-te para impedir
o fim do amor. O amor não existe,
é uma palavra simplesmente. Não
me preocupei o bastante em entrar
na casa comum da significação,
sempre tive ideias estranhas sobre
o sentido do que me diziam, do
que eu próprio ia dizendo enquanto
me esforçava por ter uma vida
semelhante à de toda a gente.
De que me serviu a originalidade,
viver nas margens do sucesso e da
derrota, concentrado em mim?
Vem tudo a dar no mesmo quando
uma tarde nos encontramos sós à
mesa de um café. Olhamos à volta,
ouvimos, escutamos a música banal
da rádio. Que importa isso ou outra
coisa, estar em casa ou na rua, ter
destino ou não saber para onde
nos leva o barco da paixão? E só
sofrem aqueles que ainda não
entenderam que morrer um dia
ilumina todos os caminhos
por onde íamos ao encontro
da existência verdadeira.

Santa Barbara, 20 de Janeiro de 1994

Red Army Choir: Bella Ciao.

Sunday, June 28, 2015

Understanding Manipulation Tactics Part One

Don't Be Afraid To Set Boundaries: Julie Hanks LCW on KSL TV's Studio 5

Louis Aragon: Elsa

Tandis que je parlais le langage des vers
Elle s’est doucement tendrement endormie
Comme une maison d’ombre au creux de notre vie
Une lampe baissée au coeur des myrrhes verts
Sa joue a retrouvé le printemps du repos
Ô corps sans poids posé dans un songe de toile
Ciel formé de ses yeux à l’heure des étoiles
Un jeune sang l’habite au couvert de sa peau
La voila qui reprend le versant de ses fables
Dieu sait obéissant à quels lointains signaux
Et c’est toujours le bal la neige les traîneaux
Elle a rejoint la nuit dans ses bras adorables
Je vois sa main bouger Sa bouche Et je me dis
Qu’elle reste pareille aux marches du silence
Qui m’échappe pourtant de toute son enfance
Dans ce pays secret à mes pas interdit
Je te supplie amour au nom de nous ensemble
De ma suppliciante et folle jalousie
Ne t’en va pas trop loin sur la pente choisie
Je suis auprès de toi comme un saule qui tremble
J’ai peur éperdument du sommeil de tes yeux
Je me ronge le coeur de ce coeur que j’écoute
Amour arrête-toi dans ton rêve et ta route
Rends-moi ta conscience et mon mal merveilleux

Louis Aragon

Atahualpa Yupanqui - El Payador Perseguido (1973)

Friday, June 26, 2015

Guillaume Apollinaire: Je t’écris ô mon Lou

Je t’écris ô mon Lou de la hutte en roseaux
Où palpitent d’amour et d’espoir neuf coeurs d’hommes
Les canons font partir leurs obus en monômes
Et j’écoute gémir la forêt sans oiseaux
Il était une fois en Bohême un poète
Qui sanglotait d’amour puis chantait au soleil
Il était autrefois la comtesse Alouette
Qui sut si bien mentir qu’il en perdit la tête
En perdit sa chanson en perdit le sommeil
Un jour elle lui dit Je t’aime ô mon poète
Mais il ne la crut pas et sourit tristement
Puis s’en fut en chantant Tire-lire Alouette
Et se cachait au fond d’un petit bois charmant
Un soir en gazouillant son joli tire-lire
La comtesse Alouette arriva dans le bois
Je t’aime ô mon poète et je viens te le dire
Je t’aime pour toujours Enfin je te revois
Et prends-la pour toujours mon âme qui soupire
Ô cruelle Alouette au coeur dur de vautour
Vous mentîtes encore au poète crédule
J’écoute la forêt gémir au crépuscule
La comtesse s’en fut et puis revint un jour
Poète adore-moi moi j’aime un autre amour
Il était une fois un poète en Bohême
Qui partit à la guerre on ne sait pas pourquoi
Voulez-vous être aimé n’aimez pas croyez-moi
Il mourut en disant Ma comtesse je t’aime
Et j’écoute à travers le petit jour si froid
Les obus s’envoler comme l’amour lui-même
10 avril 1915.
Guillaume Apollinaire, Poèmes à Lou (1915)
Poème dédié à la Comtesse Louise de Coligny, dite Lou.

8 Hour Deep Sleep Music: Delta Waves, Relaxing Music Sleep, Sleeping Mus...

Thursday, June 25, 2015


Lay those words into the dead man's grave
which he spoke in order to live.
Pillow his head amid them,
let him feel
the tongues of longing,
the tongs.
Lay that word on the dead man's eyelids
which he refused to him
who addressed him as thou,
the word
his leaping heart-blood Passed bY
when a hand as bare as his own
knotted him who addressed him as thou
into the trees of the future.
Lay this word on his eyelids:
his eye, still blue, will assume
a second, more alien blueness,
and he who addressed him as thou
will dream with him: We.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Baudelaire: Don Juan aux Enfers

Quand Don Juan descendit vers l’onde souterraine
Et lorsqu’il eut donné son obole à Charon,
Un sombre mendiant, l’oeil fier comme Antisthène,
D’un bras vengeur et fort saisit chaque aviron.
Montrant leurs seins pendants et leurs robes ouvertes,
Des femmes se tordaient sous le noir firmament,
Et, comme un grand troupeau de victimes offertes,
Derrière lui traînaient un long mugissement.
Sganarelle en riant lui réclamait ses gages,
Tandis que Don Luis avec un doigt tremblant
Montrait à tous les morts errant sur les rivages
Le fils audacieux qui railla son front blanc.
Frissonnant sous son deuil, la chaste et maigre
Elvire, Près de l’époux perfide et qui fut son amant,
Semblait lui réclamer un suprême sourire
Où brillât la douceur de son premier serment.
Tout droit dans son armure, un grand homme de pierre
Se tenait à la barre et coupait le flot noir ;
Mais le calme héros, courbé sur sa rapière,
Regardait le sillage et ne daignait rien voir.
Charles Baudelaire

Tuesday, June 23, 2015


a este moto: 

Quem se confia em olhos, 
nas meninas deles vê, 
que meninas não têm fé. 


Quem põe suas confianças 
em meninas sem assento, 
ofereça o sofrimento 
a duzentas mil mudanças. 
Mostram no ar esperanças, 
mas em seus olhos se vê 
como não têm n'alma fé. 

Enganam ao parecer, 
porque, no caso de amar, 
são mulheres no matar 
e meninas no querer. 
Quem em seus olhos se crer, 
cem mil graças neles vê; 
vê-las, sim, mas não ter fé. 

Amostram-vos num momento 
favores assi a molhos; 
mas na mudança dos olhos 
se lhe muda o pensamento. 
Em nada têm assento, 
e o que mais neles se vê 
é fermosura sem fé.

Monday, June 22, 2015

Ronnie Shakes

No hablaba inglés

Ronnie Shakes: "After twelve years of therapy my psychiatrist said something that brought tears to my eyes. He said: 'No hablo inglés'."

Friday, June 19, 2015

All About That Bass - Postmodern Jukebox European Tour Version

It Will Pass

A student went to his meditation teacher and said, “My meditation is horrible! I feel so distracted, or my legs ache, or I’m constantly falling asleep. It’s just horrible!”

“It will pass,” the teacher said matter-of-factly.
A week later, the student came back to his teacher. “My meditation is wonderful! I feel so aware, so peaceful, so alive! It’s just wonderful!’
“It will pass,” the teacher replied matter-of-factly.

Thursday, June 18, 2015

Paranoia and Paranoid Disorders

What is Paranoia?

Paranoia involves feelings of persecution and an exaggerated sense of self-importance. Paranoia occurs in many mental disorders and is rare as an isolated mental illness. Since the delusions involve only one area, a person with paranoia can usually work and function in everyday life, however, their lives may be limited and isolated. There are different types of paranoia including conjugal paranoia, erotomania, hypochondriacal paranoia, and different types of paranoid disorders such as paranoid personality and paranoid schizophrenia.

Symptoms of Paranoia:

Symptoms of paranoia and paranoid disorders include intense and irrational mistrust or suspicion, which can bring on sense of rage, hatred, and betrayal. Some people suffering from paranoid personality may have a high capacity to annoy or enrage others because of rigid and maladaptive behavior. Some identifiable beliefs and actions of paranoid-related disorders include mistrust, taking offense easily, difficulty with forgiveness, defensive attitude in response to imagined criticism, preoccupation with hidden motives, fear of being deceived or taken advantage of, inability to relax, argumentative, abrupt, stubborn, self-righteous, and perfectionistic.

What Causes Paranoia?

The cause of paranoia is a breakdown of various mental and emotional functions involving reasoning and assigned meanings. The reasons for these breakdowns are varied and uncertain. Some symptoms of paranoia may arise from repressed, denied or projected feelings. Paranoid thoughts and feelings can become part of a delusional system through an accident, a misunderstanding or minor injustice, heightened intimacy, or increased responsibility.

Treatment of Paranoia

Treatment of paranoia is usually via behavior therapy which is aimed at reducing sensitivity to criticism and improving social skills. It can be difficult to treat a person with paranoia as they may be irritable, emotionally guarded, hostile, and unwilling; therefore, progress is slow. Therapy attempts to break the cycle of suspicion and isolation by using relaxation and anxiety management and by aiding the person to change certain behaviors.

Henri Duparc - L'invitation au Voyage (Baudelaire/Charles Panzéna)

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

The cure

You may believe that you are
in love. And an intense joy may 
fill you heart. And you may want
to thank the gods and celebrate.

But not until you you get rid
of that atrocious wound will you 
find in your soul peace and be
able to breath again. I tell you.

What I say contradicts common 
knowledge? Sure. I know that.
You want to say me wrong? I 
don’t mind, will not be offended. 

Don’t lie to yourself, man. Here is
the cure: erase from your memory 
the image of her beautiful body, 
forget her so sweet smile. Her loving 
words? She is just a silly girl. Her 
legs, her breast, her hands on your 
face? And she walked gracefully at 
your side on the streets of the big 
city? Just a dream, I tell you, it never 
happened. Say thank you to me, boy, 
go to bed and try to sleep, moron. 

J. E. Soice

Saturday, April 25, 2015

Alfred de Musste: À Ninon

Si je vous le disais pourtant, que je vous aime,
Qui sait, brune aux yeux bleus, ce que vous en diriez ?
L’amour, vous le savez, cause une peine extrême ;
C’est un mal sans pitié que vous plaignez vous-même ;
Peut-être cependant que vous m’en puniriez.
Si je vous le disais, que six mois de silence
Cachent de longs tourments et des voeux insensés :
Ninon, vous êtes fine, et votre insouciance
Se plaît, comme une fée, à deviner d’avance ;
Vous me répondriez peut-être : Je le sais.
Si je vous le disais, qu’une douce folie
A fait de moi votre ombre, et m’attache à vos pas :
Un petit air de doute et de mélancolie,
Vous le savez, Ninon, vous rend bien plus jolie ;
Peut-être diriez-vous que vous n’y croyez pas.
Si je vous le disais, que j’emporte dans l’âme
Jusques aux moindres mots de nos propos du soir :
Un regard offensé, vous le savez, madame,
Change deux yeux d’azur en deux éclairs de flamme ;
Vous me défendriez peut-être de vous voir.
Si je vous le disais, que chaque nuit je veille,
Que chaque jour je pleure et je prie à genoux ;
Ninon, quand vous riez, vous savez qu’une abeille
Prendrait pour une fleur votre bouche vermeille ;
Si je vous le disais, peut-être en ririez-vous.
Mais vous ne saurez rien. - Je viens, sans rien en dire,
M’asseoir sous votre lampe et causer avec vous ;
Votre voix, je l’entends ; votre air, je le respire ;
Et vous pouvez douter, deviner et sourire,
Vos yeux ne verront pas de quoi m’être moins doux.
Je récolte en secret des fleurs mystérieuses :
Le soir, derrière vous, j’écoute au piano
Chanter sur le clavier vos mains harmonieuses,
Et, dans les tourbillons de nos valses joyeuses,
Je vous sens, dans mes bras, plier comme un roseau.
La nuit, quand de si loin le monde nous sépare,
Quand je rentre chez moi pour tirer mes verrous,
De mille souvenirs en jaloux je m’empare ;
Et là, seul devant Dieu, plein d’une joie avare,
J’ouvre, comme un trésor, mon cœur tout plein de vous.
J’aime, et je sais répondre avec indifférence ;
J’aime, et rien ne le dit ; j’aime, et seul je le sais ;
Et mon secret m’est cher, et chère ma souffrance ;
Et j’ai fait le serment d’aimer sans espérance,
Mais non pas sans bonheur ; - je vous vois, c’est assez.
Non, je n’étais pas né pour ce bonheur suprême,
De mourir dans vos bras et de vivre à vos pieds.
Tout me le prouve, hélas ! jusqu’à ma douleur même…
Si je vous le disais pourtant, que je vous aime,
Qui sait, brune aux yeux bleus, ce que vous en diriez ?
Alfred de Musset

Thursday, April 23, 2015

The Gift of Insults

There once lived a great warrior. Though quite old, he still was able to defeat any challenger. His reputation extended far and wide throughout the land and many students gathered to study under him.

One day an infamous young warrior arrived at the village. He was determined to be the first man to defeat the great master. Along with his strength, he had an uncanny ability to spot and exploit any weakness in an opponent. He would wait for his opponent to make the first move, thus revealing a weakness, and then would strike with merciless force and lightning speed. No one had ever lasted with him in a match beyond the first move.
Much against the advice of his concerned students, the old master gladly accepted the young warrior's challenge. As the two squared off for battle, the young warrior began to hurl insults at the old master. He threw dirt and spit in his face. For hours he verbally assaulted him with every curse and insult known to mankind. But the old warrior merely stood there motionless and calm. Finally, the young warrior exhausted himself. Knowing he was defeated, he left feeling shamed.
Somewhat disappointed that he did not fight the insolent youth, the students gathered around the old master and questioned him. "How could you endure such an indignity? How did you drive him away?"

"If someone comes to give you a gift and you do not receive it," the master replied, "to whom does the gift belong?"

Monday, March 30, 2015

Frank Werfel: Six Septets To Honor The Spring Of 1905

Maria Immisch was the springtime. 
With feeling and reverence
I snatch her adored name from the underworld.
When I was fifteen in '05, that year
—they celebrated the big Schiller centennial
—and I saw her as heroine in his famous plays.
To this day my heart's still thankful.

The city park was already dense in leaf.
The lilacs beckoned. I was allowed
Entry into the Classical Theater.
I sat in the overpacked balcony.
She stood inflamed with her stage magic presence
While a storm of emotions raged through my fresh heart
As did the song of Schiller's iambs.

Her hair was black. Her eyes were blue.
She played girl, child, and lady
In peplum, petticoat, Stuart collar, cloak.
She spoke the words in a dark contralto.
She strode and suffered and died, her character on air.
She was that woman. She was my dear and holy faith,
The one who pierced the invulnerable me.

The spring named Maria Immisch
Showed me the way to this far shore.
She was the springtime. But I was in bloom.
I became dead quiet. Life was too big.
My hopeless case was at school
For I studied her picture all the live-long day
Painfully healthy, so blissfully sick.

That night I fled from the house
And stood with that cuffed bouquet,
Lacking the audacity, outside the stage door.
She came out with a gentleman trimmed in fur,
She was the star of the city, she was a star.
In utter silence I retreated with my flowers from that place
Almost relieved that I had failed.

The night was moon-white in the park.
I tossed those flowers in the pond.
There they floated. I didn't mean it to be symbolic.
My heart wasn't hurt, wasn't greedy for pain.
For the first time I had an inkling of warm tears,
That we only get what we never get.
Maria Immisch, the spring '05, be thanked. 

Monday, March 16, 2015

Shakespeare : Trilogy on Love

Who most doth slander love The deed must alway prove. Truth shall excuse That you accuse, 4 For slander and reprove; Not by refuse, But by abuse You most do slander love. 8 Ye grant it is a snare And would us not beware. Lest that your train Should be too plain, 12 Ye colour all the care. Lo, how you feign, Pleasure for pain, And grant it is a snare. 16 To love and to be wise, It were a strange device! But from that taste Ye vow the fast, -- 20 On zyns though run your dice, Ambs-ace may haste Your pain to waste, To love, and to be wise. 24 Of all such pleasant days, Of all such pleasant plays, Without desert You have your part, 28 And all the world so says. Save that poor heart That for more smart Feeleth yet such pleasant days. 32 Such fire and such heat Did never make ye sweat, For without pain You best obtain 36 To good speed and to great. Who so doth plain, You best do feign Such fire and such heat. 40 Who now doth slander love?

Shakespeare: Trilogy on Love

Leave thus to slander love! Though evil with such it prove Which often use Love to misuse, 4 And loving to reprove. Such cannot chose, For their refuse, But thus, to slander love. 8 Flee not so much the snare - Love seldom causeth care, But by deserts And crafty parts, 12 Some leese their own welfare. Be true of hearts, And for no smarts Flee not so much the snare. 16 To love and not to be wise Is but a mad device. Such love doth last As sure and fast 20 As chance on the dice. A bitter taste Comes at the last, To love and not to be wise. 24 Such be the pleasant days, Such be the honest ways. There is no man, That fully can 28 Know it, but that he says Loving to ban Were folly then! Such be the pleasant days. 32 Such is a pleasant fire, Kindled by true desire. And though the pain Cause men to plain 36 Speed well is oft the hire. Then though some feign And leese the gain, Love is a pleasant fire.

Shakespeare: Trilogy on Love

Shakespeare: Trilogy on Love

PART I Lo, what it is to love! Learn ye, that list to prove, At me I say, No ways that may 4 The grounded grief remove, My life alway That doth decay. Lo! what it is to love. 8 Flee alway from the snare, Learn by me to beware Of such a train Which doubles pain, 12 And endless woe and care That doth retain; Which to refrain Flee alway from the snare. 16 To love and to be wise, To rage with good advice, Now thus, now then, Now off, now on, 20 Uncertain as the dice; There is no man At once that can To love and to be wise. 24 Such are the diverse throes, Such, that no man knows That hath not proved, And once have loved. 28 Such are the raging woes: Sooner reproved Than well removed, Such are the diverse throes. 32 Love is a fervent fire Kindled by hot desire; For a short pleasure, Long displeasure; 36 Repentance is the hire. A poor treasure, Without measure. Love is a fervent fire. 40 Lo! what it is to lov

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Aimi Kobayashi - Chopin Nocturne in C-sharp minor, Op. posth

Vladimir Holan - When It Rains On Sunday

When it rains on Sunday and you are alone,
open to the world but no thief comes
and neither drunkard nor enemy knocks at the door,
when it rains on Sunday and you're deserted
and can't imagine living without the body
or not living since you have it,
when it rains on Sunday and you're on your own,
don't think of chatting with yourself.
Then it's an angel who knows, and only what's above,
then it's a devil who knows, and only what's below.

A book is in the holding, a poem in release.

Thursday, March 05, 2015

Eu, ela e o cão

Nunca nada me fez só mal,  nem só bem. Tudo me tem feito sempre mal e bem. Hoje não sei que dizer, só te envio a fotografia do cão. Por mim não mandava. Mas o cão veio pôr-se ali à entrada da sala, na porta que dá para o jardim, e perguntou-me porque é que eu lhe tinha mentido. 
- O que é que estás para aí a contar, disse eu. 
- Disseste-me que ela hoje vinha, mas não veio nem vem. 
- Como é que sabes?
- Assim que olhei para ti esta manhã percebi logo que ela hoje não vinha. 
- Ela nunca pensou em vir. Sabes como são as miúdas, um pouco fúteis, não sabem o que dizem.
- Mas tu pensavas que ela vinha. 
- Nunca acreditei nisso a sério. Mas era uma possibilidade engraçada.
- Ela não é fútil, não inventes.
- OK, ela não é fútil, tens razão. Retiro o que disse. 
- As raparigas não sabem o sentido exacto das palavras. E tu exageraste, pediste de mais. Esperaste de mais. Em tão pouco tempo! Insensatez. A rapariga assustou-se. A pobre já nem podia respirar, não entendia nada, não sabia o que fazer. Tudo na vida dela tinha estado regulado até tu apareceres. Porque és tão impaciente, tão imprudente?
- E tu, porque te estás a meter onde não és chamado? A história de amor é minha, não tua. Eu assumo as responsabilidades, o prazer e a dor são meus. Tu não passas de um cão.
- Os cães também têm sentimentos. Vi-te meio triste. O orgulho não te vai servir de nada. 
- Estás enganado. Estou tão feliz como antes. Aliás ficas a saber que continuo a gostar muito dela, tanto como sempre. Nunca me aconteceu uma coisa assim. Nunca mais me vou esquecer da cara dela, das palavras que ela me escreveu.  Nunca ninguém me disse de maneira tão sincera e tão terna que me amava.  
- Pois, talvez. Tiras-me uma fotografia?
- Para mandares à tua namorada? Não me faças rir. As cadelas preferem os cães de carne e osso, uma fotografia não resolve nada. 
- Olha que eu perco a paciência e o respeito e mordo-te.
- Morde. Pensas que me importa? Hoje tanto se me dá.
- Ela não te sai do pensamento. Digo o nome dela? Começa por A.
- Caluda! Proibido dizer o nome. 
- Reprimido. Tanto pudor, tanto segredo. Sofres em silêncio. 
- Pensa o que quiseres, mas eu não sou nenhum romântico imbecilizado. Mind your own business. 
O cão olhou-me com ar misterioso, não sei se duvidava da minha sinceridade. Eu vim-me embora, sentei-me a ler. Tirei-lhe a fotografia, mando-ta aqui, ele parece que está a meditar. Um cão que pensa e fala não é coisa corrente. 

Enquanto te escrevia estava a ouvir os Madredeus. A hora que te espreita é só tua...  Coisas pequenas... e a menina... foge... o barquinho...  do Porto para Lisboa... foge a menina da beira-mar...  haja o que houver eu estou aqui... Mas não posso pôr a música muito alta porque, como tu dizes, eu sou “um amor clandestino” e por isso não tenho nem posso ter direito a nada. Posso dizer pela boca da Teresa Salgueiro que “queria mais alegria, isso que eu queria”, posso deixar essas palavras e a música como mensagem no teu telefone, mas é tudo. É muito ou pouco? É muito e é pouco. 

Sunday, March 01, 2015

Vamos a Budapeste?

H. – Lembras-te de quando nos conhecemos?

M. – Foi há muito tempo.

H. – Depois, durante alguns anos, ignorei-te. 

A. – Eu não me queixei. 

H. –  A minha vida era noutro sítio. Eu tinha uma relação com outra mulher. 

M. – Eu tinha uma relação com outro homem. 

H. – Eu gostei de ti.

M. – Não sei se é verdade. O que é gostar? Querias dormir comigo. 

H. – Eu tirei-te muitas fotografias, lembras-te? 

M. – Eu não te tinha pedido nada.

H. –  Ia tirando as fotografias e ia ficando seduzido. Naquela casa imensa, cheia de escadas, com quartos enormes e vista para o rio. 

M. – Depois levaste-me para o teu quarto. Fiquei surpreendida. 

H. –  Não me esqueci de nada.

M. – Foi há muito tempo.

H. – Tenho saudades. E remorsos.

M. – Remorsos?

H. –  Não soube amar-te.

M. – O que tu procuravas não era o amor.

H. – Agora eu lembrei-me. Estava a olhar para ti e lembrei-me. 

M. – Foi há muito tempo.

H. – Nunca me esqueci.

M. –  Levaste-me a jantar. Fomos de carro. Atravessámos uma ponte de pedra muito antiga.

H. –  Não me esqueci.

M. – Depois, quando chegou o momento de partir, fomos pela margem do rio até à grande cidade.

H. –  Tu ias sentada ao meu lado. Eu sabia. 

M. – Na grande cidade dormimos numa pensão perto de um torre antiga, mas tu nunca mais me tocaste. 

H. –  Eu sei. 

M. – Sentias-te culpado. 

H. –  Eu sei.

M. – Fiquei surpreendida, mas não me queixei. 

H. –  Eu sei.

M. – Dormiste comigo uma ou duas vezes e desinteressaste-te.

H. –  Havia outra mulher na minha vida. Pode ter sido por isso.

M. – Não sabes?

H. –  Não sei.

M. – E agora estás a olhar para mim.

H. –  Encontrámo-nos várias vezes, mas nunca falámos no que aconteceu naqueles três dias.  

M. – Eu não me queixo. Nunca me queixei. Provavelmente também me esqueci.

H. –  Amaste outros homens, tinhas de te esquecer.

M. – Amei? Devo ter amado. Mas o amor, os homens, neste momento não me interessam. 

H. –  Não sei se acredite em ti.

M. – É verdade. Juro-te.

H. –  Mas alguém te ama, tu amas alguém ainda.

M. – Não sei se estou feita para viver com outra pessoa. 

H. –  Queres ir comigo a Budapeste? 

M. – A Budapeste? Fazer o quê?

H. –  Nada. 

M. – Nada?

H. –  Nós não temos nada a fazer em Budapeste, nem eu nem tu. É por isso que devíamos lá ir. Ver como é.  

M. – Andamos a pé pelas ruas de Budapeste, sentamo-nos nos cafés. Tu e eu. Mas porquê eu? Vais sozinho e lá conheces outras pessoas.

H. –  Não gosto de viajar sozinho. 

M. – E se te aborreces-te na minha companhia? Como saber que não te vais irritar comigo, que não te vais desinteressar de mim outra vez? Ou eu aborrecer-me ao teu lado?

H. –  Não é impossível, mas parece-me improvável. Acabo de descobrir-te outra vez. 

M. – Hmmm....

H. –  You are so sweet. Estás tão bonita. Os teus olhos. O teu sorriso. Como é possível eu não ter ficado amarrado a ti a primeira vez, quando nos conhecemos?

M. – Really? Amarrado? Que exagero. Tu tinhas outra mulher na tua vida. 

H. –  Vamos a Budapeste e durante dez dias fazemos só o que nos apetece. 

M. – Parece simples.

H. –  É simples.

M. – Não sei.

H. –  Não te estou a propor futuro nenhum. Estou só a propor-te que durante dez dias te esqueças da tua outra vida, aquela que deixaste e a que regressarás. 

M. – As coisas que tu dizes...

M. – Conheces-me há tanto tempo. Estás a dar-me uma importância que eu não tinha previsto.

H. –  A primeira vez não te conheci. Passei por ti distraidamente. Não entendo como foi possível. 

M. – Foi possível.

H. –  És uma pessoa muito mais interessante do que eu tinha percebido. Não me dei conta disso. Fui um imbecil.

M. – Queres redimir-te agora?

H. – Quero.

M. – Porquê?

H. –  Fui um parvo a primeira vez. Menosprezei-te. 

M. – Acontece-nos a todos. Já te confessei que neste momento os homens não me despertam muito interesse. Tanto se me dá. Provavelmente não devia ser assim. Mas que posso fazer? Nada.

H. –  Quando se está seguro do amor de outra pessoa é fácil falar assim. 

M. – É possível. Mas não sinto nenhuma vontade de me comprometer. 

H. –  Não te comprometas. Anda comigo a Budapeste.

M. – Não sei.

H. –  Eu gosto de ti. Durante dez dias vou tratar-te tão bem que tu nunca mais te vais esquecer. Quando voltarmos e nos separarmos no aeroporto despedimo-nos e nunca mais voltamos a falar no assunto. Ficamos apenas amigos como antes de ir a Budapeste.

M. – As coisas que tu dizes.

H. –  Não acreditas em mim?

M. – Não sei se quero acreditar. Não sei se quero pensar nisso. 

H. –  Eu não te falei de amor. 

M. – Falaste de qualquer coisa que se assemelha àquilo a que as pessoas chamam amor. 

H. –  Não me interessa o que as outras pessoas pensam. Basta de submissão ao senso comum. O que é que as outras pessoas sabem da vida? 

M. – E tu, o que é que sabes da vida?

H. –  Sei.

M. – Tenho de me ir embora. Há um comboio dentro de dez minutos.

H. –  Promete-me que vais pensar no que eu te proponho.

M. – Talvez.

H. –  Não me desiludas. 

M. – Logo se vê.

H. –  Dez dias fora deste mundo de rotinas e de tédio. 

M. – Talvez, não sei. Tenho de ir.

H. –  Se recusares, um dia vais arrepender-te. Quando entenderes.

M. – Não sei. 

H. –  Promete-me que vais pensar nisso.

M. – Prometo. Adeus.

Thursday, February 12, 2015

Le rêve et la réalité

 Le rêve et la réalité

Dieu se sert-il du rêve pour nous faire 
douter de la réalité ? Ou pour nous 
dédommager des embarras dans lesquels 
nous a mis sa bonté un tantinet folle et par 
moments si bienveillante ? Il nous offre dans 
l’irréalité du rêve ce qu’il nous refuse dans la 
vie réelle, là où vraiment se passent les choses. 
Si  je ne t’ai pas vue pendant deux jours il arrive 
que tu fasses irruption dans mon sommeil. Je n’y 
peux rien, tu viens quand ça te prend ou Dieu le 
veut. Alors tu me parles et je t’écoute. Et à nouveau 
tu m’étonnes. Tu es si belle dans tes jolis habits de 
nonne. Tu me fais penser à Héloïse. Hélas, je ne serai 
jamais Abélard. Je te regarde et parfois je te réponds. 
Tout semble aussi vrai que si nous étions encore en 
train de prendre du thé et de bavarder à l’hôtel cette 
après-midi là. C’était pas mal, reconnais-le, pour une 
première rencontre. C’était même superbe, presque 
un miracle, on peut le dire maintenant. Tu trouves pas ?

Dans le rêve tu me souris, tes yeux me regardent sans 
crainte. Mais parfois tu te tais, tu fermes tes yeux et je 
te vois pensive. Tu redeviens celle que j’ai connue, celle 
avec qui je soupçonne Dieu de m’avoir lié à fin que dans 
mon existence règnent le désordre et l’inquiétude. Est-ce 
que je dois me plaindre ? Ou tout accepter et me taire ? 
Car après, quand le soleil revient et je me réveille, tu es 
disparue. Je sais où te chercher, il est vrai, tu me l’as dit. 
Mais jamais je ne croiserai ton chemin sans y être invité, 
tu le sais très bien. Je t’ai écrit, n’est-ce pas, et tu ne m’as 
pas répondu. Tu me l’avais demandé pourtant : écris-moi, 
je te répondrai. Je l’ai fait. Une semaine s’est écoulée et 
j’attendais toujours de recevoir ta réponse. Elle n’arrivera 
jamais. Tu me parles et tu me souris quand on se rencontre 
dans la rue ou dans le rêve. Mais écrire, non, tu ne m’écris 
pas, tu n’as plus rien à me dire. Je m’y suis fait, de toute façon. 
Et qui suis-je pour espérer ou exiger de toi un peu d’attention? 

Cela dit, est-ce que tu n’exagères pas un peu par moments? Tu 
t’es habituée à la solitude et les gens te fatiguent. On te sourit, 
on te fais des compliments discrets sur ta beauté et sur ton 
intelligence, on te dit « merci à toi d’exister, sans ta présence 
le monde deviendrait maintenant un lieu bien vide », et tu te 
fâches. Tu t’imagines qu’on te parle d’amour et tu ne veux
surtout pas être aimée. Quelle drôle d’éducation vous recevez
dans votre pays. Je ne m’y ferai jamais. Je refuse de m’y faire, 
de toute façon. Passons. Parfois on fait des promesses qu’on 
n’a pas la force de satisfaire. Dans mes rêves, oui, et quand tu 
me rencontres par hasard dans la rue aussi, tu redeviens la fille 
que j’ai connue, celle avec qui j’ai ri et bavardé, celle qui soudain 
fermait ses yeux et  semblait en proie à une grande douleur ou à 
une grande joie. Tu m’inquiétais, je te regardais et je ne savais pas 
quoi faire. Je me sentais un peu perdu et un peu coupable. 
Mais tu ne m’écris pas pour autant. Tu ne veux pas être 
dérangée. Oui, je sais : être aimé sans en avoir ni l’envie 
ni la force est un fardeau. Mais est-ce que j’ai jamais parlé 
d’amour, moi ? Je n’ai rien dit. Je n’étais qu’étonné de t’avoir 
rencontrée là où te rencontrer n’était pas prévu. Cela se voyait 
dans mon visage, mon étonnement et mon plaisir ? Ai-je dit des
bêtises, ai-je été trop sincère dans la manifestation de ma joie ?  
Tu n’avais qu’à ne pas me parler, qu’à ne pas me regarder comme 
si nous nous connaissions depuis l’éternité. C’était un malentendu ? 
Mes excuses, mademoiselle, mais je ne crois pas aux malentendus. 

Ce Dieu qui nous a mis dans le chemin l’un de l’autre probablement 
s’ennuyait et a voulu se distraire en nous mettant l’un et l’autre dans 
l’embarras. Trouve-t-il que nos vies sont assez dénuées de difficultés 
et qu’il a le droit de nous faire croire à ce que jamais n’arrivera ? Il mêle 
le rêve et la réalité, pour lui c’est tout du pareil au même. Et bien, pas 
pour nous, pas pour moi en tout cas. Au fond Il s’en fout, n’est-ce pas ? 
À nous de nous débrouiller. J’accepte.  Je n’ai plus rien à Lui dire, qu’il 
me foute la paix et me laisse m’occuper désormais, sans son aide si 
précieuse, de mon propre destin. Car je ne crois pas être responsable 
moi-même de toute cette confusion. À toi non plus je n’ai plus rien à dire 
pour le moment. Tu as commencé à me prendre pour quelqu’un qui n’est 
pas moi, je ne peux pas l’accepter. Arrête, s’il te plaît, ça n’a pas de sens, 
ni queue ni tête. Salut. Je crois que je m’en vais. Pardon si j’ai dérangé.

J. E. Soice

Saturday, February 07, 2015



Tu falas, tu calas-te,
tu bebes, tu olhas.
E nada tem importância,
podes ir para casa ou 
deitar-te ao rio, vem
a dar no mesmo. 
Quem se lembrará de ti?
Quem te vê quando tu
andas a pé pelas ruas 
da cidade adormecida?
E no entanto sofres,
alegras-te, dás
importância ao que
acontece, fazes
planos para o futuro,
às vezes tens remorsos
dos pecados que nunca
cometeste. Fala ou
cala-te. Morre ou
vive. A indiferença
dos deuses é eterna.

Santa Barbara, 18 de Maio de 2005